


Name Games

by Eussoros



Category: RWBY
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, M/M, Nothing Hurts, STRQ are together and happy, Sexual Themes, im just incapable of writing these two not hungry for each other, nothing terribly explicit tho, outdated James semblance theory but i like it, set just after STRQ academy days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eussoros/pseuds/Eussoros
Summary: A collection of drabbles based on Team STRQ's questionable taste in aliases.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Name Games

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to submit a terrible name and/or a prompt, hit me up at eussoros.tumblr.com

A rush of air.

The click of a latch.

The scrape of chair legs across a floor.

The soft _thwap_ of an outdated manila file on the desk.

Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass window, the soft click of a button.

“Private Rayne Olsen. Where were you between oh-seven-hundred and seven-fifteen on the morning of Tuesday, October twenty-second?”

“I was at my post, sir.”

“Would you care to elaborate, Private?”

“Er… I-I was at my guard post, sir, facing the wall, and counting to five thousand. Sir.”

“Did your assigned duties for that post include staring at the wall and counting?”

“No, sir.”

“Why did you do this?”

“I was ordered to, sir.”

Sigh.

“Who gave the order?”

“A specialist, sir.”

“Did you get their name?”

“Er…”

“It’s a simple question, Private Olsen.”

“Bauls, sir.”

“...”

“Captain… Schmelli… Bauls. Sir.”

_Sigh._

\-------

Captain James Ironwood groaned and leaned back against the door of his apartment with a thud. He scrubbed a hand across his face, and sighed. That made _four times this fucking month_ he’d come across evidence of a particularly chaotic band of - thieves, huntsmen, terrorists, friends - _rogues_ breaking into Atlas’ secure storage depots for no discernible reason. They never took anything, they were never there for more than fifteen minutes, they always used incredibly stupid aliases. For all he knew, they were doing it specifically to drive him mad.

Given who he thought it was, that was actually a distinct possibility.

The quiet sound of the ancient light switching on in the kitchenette put James on high alert. He silently let the bag slip to the floor, and drew Due Process. He crept through the dark apartment, and popped around the doorway to the kitchenette with the pistol raised.

Qrow Branwen stared at him, whiskey still pouring into the glass. “Want some?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

James sighed and put the pistol away. “Sure, why not. Might calm my nerves at _finding you in my apartment, unannounced._ ”

“Bah. You love me.” Qrow poured another glass - James tried not to think about how Qrow seemed so comfortable in the tiny kitchenette, despite having theoretically never been there before - while James moved to the couch and shucked off his shoes. If he was going to have to deal with Qrow at this hour, he would be _comfortable_ , brothers damn it.

Qrow handed him a glass, which he took a sip from and set down. He watched Qrow fold himself sideways onto the short couch. Qrow looked him in the eye, grinned, and stuck his socked feet under James’ leg.

“ _Shit_ why are you so cold?” His feet were lumps of ice under his leg. It was a rather effective antidote to the warm fuzzies he’d gotten, with Qrow so near.

Qrow’s grin stretched wider. “It’s cold outside. Haven’t you heard?”

James snorted, then sighed. “Qrow, what are you doing here?”

“Warming my toes, duh.”

“What are you doing in Solitas?”

“Other than visiting my favorite fuck-buddy?”

James flushed. He cleared his throat, carefully not looking at Qrow. He stared into his drink instead. “Yes. Other than that.” He sipped whiskey, and raised his eyes to Qrow. “What are you doing breaking into my supply depots?”

Qrow’s grin became downright manic for a moment, and he tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over James. Then the grin faded into a lopsided, fond smile. “Someone’s been tagging Atlas supply crates with a tracker. Tagged shipments get attacked; the more crates are in the shipment, the more likely and stronger the attack. They haven’t gone after supply depots yet, but…” Qrow shrugged. “We’re working on finding the source of the trackers. There was a chance that the military was involved - still is, though we’re confident it’s not this bit --”

“So you needed to move without our knowledge - and without our hindrance.” James frowned. The aura field he’d extended to cover Qrow remained untwisted to his eyes. Though Qrow couldn’t see it, it shone a steady bright blue to James. Even a little doubt or falsehood would discolor and twist the field.

“Yeah.” Qrow rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate going behind your back like this. We’ve cleared all of the depots in the area, and determined it’s coming from elsewhere, so… I wanted you to hear it from us. From me.”

In spite of himself, James’ heart warmed at that. He hid his smile in his glass. “You’re a little late for that, I’m afraid. The utterly awful names gave it away.”

Qrow hummed and sat up. “But did they make you smile?”

“Endangering your mission like that on the off chance that I might find it amusing seems like a bit of a stretch, Qrow.”

Qrow set his empty glass on the table in front of them. “Oh, I don’t know. You’d be surprised at the things I’m willing to do to make you smile.” He grinned and slid closer to James. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

James flushed again. Clearly whiskey was a bad idea, this late. He wasn’t normally this reactive. “That was twice. And I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a mistake.”

Qrow scooted still closer. “You were certainly enthusiastic at the time.” Somehow James’ blush deepened, and Qrow laid a hand on his knee. “And you’re not mad about it now.”

“What makes you so certain of that?” James asked.

Qrow hummed. His hand crept up James’ thigh. “You haven’t thrown me out yet.” He grinned, tilting his head so his breath ghosted over James’ neck. “I think you want me to stay.”

He swallowed hard. “Would you?” he breathed.

Qrow’s breath hitched, and then he pulled away. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. My team is already on the road by now.” He smiled wistfully. “I’ve probably taken too much time already.”

James let out the breath he’d been holding. “Of course. I shouldn’t keep you.” They rose from the couch together, James fetching Harbinger from where it leaned near the window while Qrow got his shoes and coat back on. “Think you can get yourself back out, or shall I pull rank?”

“Nah, I got this. Left some notes on your security on your desk.”

Then they were in the entryway, and Qrow was looking at him, wistful and a little sad. James crowded him against the wall, pulled him into a rough kiss, his hands raking possessively down the spy’s body - “One for the road,” he muttered, against chapped lips, “to remind you who your favorite is.” - and sealed it with another kiss, sweet and gentle and brief. Then Qrow was out the door.

James watched him saunter down the darkened hallway, then spoke quietly, knowing the spy would hear. “Schmelli Bauls? Really?”

Qrow grinned over his shoulder, and disappeared into darkness.


End file.
